Chapter 1 #2
I drop my boots to the floor and stand, bracing my hands on the desk. ‘True. Or. False.’
She stills, nostrils flaring. ‘You want me to blow smoke up your ass? Is that what this is?’
‘Not at all. What this is,’ I say calmly, ‘is me reminding you that I’ve earned the right to pick and choose my assignments. My contract says I don’t have to jump when you say boo. That’s for your Tier Threes and Fours, the ones you love to terrorise. As a Tier Seven, I don’t need to do jack.’
I straighten and plant my hands on my hips.
‘Although,’ I add thoughtfully, ‘maybe I do need to do Jack.’
I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll with exaggerated interest before tapping a number and lifting it to my ear.
‘Well well,’ comes the thick Irish brogue almost immediately. ‘Must be my lucky day.’
Jack O’Malley from New Jersey by way of Dublin.
Construction worker, married, father of three. I met him in a pub outside Limerick while I was tailing a leprechaun who thought offshore accounts fleeced from desperate housewives made him untouchable. Jack bought me a drink, made me laugh, offered me another.
‘Must be,’ I say. ‘Looks like I’m free for that drink after all.’
I wink at Maribel as she makes a sharp slicing gesture that clearly says we’re not finished.
I ignore it and walk out, already halfway down the hall.
She doesn’t need to know I turned Jack down two months ago. Or that I have no intention of meeting him now. I pick a time I know he’s busy, take a few extra steps to sell the lie, then murmur my apologies and cry off with practised ease.
When I step outside, the air feels lighter.
Relief pulls up from the bottom of my lungs.
I walk fast, then faster, not slowing until I’m ten blocks away from the agency office. I don’t look up at the solid black glass tower that dominates the skyline behind me.
I definitely don’t think about the man whose name made my blood turn traitor.
I’ve worked too hard to risk being in the same room where he’s mentioned.
Still, my vigilance stays high as I cut through the streets, double back twice, and take a roundabout route to the apartment I rent under another name. Eight locks slide into place behind me. Cameras check in. Wards hum softly. And traps, I’m happy to note, remain untouched.
Still, I’m restless.
It’s nothing.
It has to be nothing.
Powerful men hire bounty hunters every day, human and otherwise. When they do, they ask for the best. They assume money or pressure will handle the rest.
‘Not my fault I’m the fucking best,’ I mutter, half-smiling as I pace the length of my rug for the fourth time.
The humour doesn’t stick.
After an hour of accomplishing nothing, I drop onto the sofa and stare at the ceiling.
Everything I told Maribel was true.
I can’t be forced to take a job I don’t want. And I absolutely do not want this one.
But apparently, out of mind isn’t out of sight.
My phone pings with increasing frequency over the next three weeks while I take any shitty, mediocre, borderline insulting job I can get my hands on, purely so I have a legitimate excuse to refuse the one the agency seems disturbingly invested in me accepting.
I drag a poltergeist out of a condemned laundromat in Queens that smells like mould and regret.
I retrieve a feral river-witch from under a bridge in Jersey after she floods a commuter line for fun.
Babysit a coven defector through three boroughs while she screams at pigeons and tries to curse my boots, and track a demon skimming favours instead of souls, who spends most of the chase begging me not to tell his handler.
None of it pays well.
All of it keeps my file active and lets me keep saying no.
The New York office doesn’t love that.
At first, it’s subtle. Follow-up calls. Calendar requests. A terse note from Maribel reminding me that ‘selective availability’ isn’t the same as immunity.
Then it escalates.
Her boss gets involved.
Then her boss’s boss.
Pressure starts hitting places that have nothing to do with work. My apartment rent goes up. A supplier suddenly wants payment up front. Anonymity is expensive, and the bill comes due whether you like it or not.
For half a day, I consider quitting.
It’s a stupid thought, and I know it instantly, but desperation makes people entertain stupid ideas.
Going freelance sounds romantic until you remember the rules.
Strict laws govern human and superhuman interactions, and agencies exist for a reason.
Neutrality clauses and legal buffers have saved my ass more than once.
Only someone with a death wish works alone.
And I’ve stared death in the face enough times to know he’s not my type.
The final warning comes on a Tuesday, delivered with surgical calm by someone I’ve never met but whose authority bleeds through the line anyway.
‘Report to the Agency. Or be terminated.’
No soft language. No pretence.
I hang up and sit very still, my phone warm in my hand.
Fired means more than losing a pay cheque. It means losing access, cover, the infrastructure that lets me exist without leaving footprints. It means burning aliases faster than I can replace them.
Worst of all, it means attention. And attention gets people killed.
Homelessness isn’t an option when you’re running, and neither is poverty. Both make you visible.
I pace my apartment, cataloguing exits, doing everything except the one thing I don’t want to do. Outside, New York hums on, indifferent as ever.
Eventually, there are no distractions left.
I pick up my phone and scroll past numbers I trust and numbers I don’t until I reach the one I’ve been avoiding for days.
The name alone steadies me more than it should.
I hit call before I can change my mind. She answers on the second ring.
‘Yes?’ Her voice is dry, sharp, unsurprised.
‘I need to see you,’ I reply.
A throb of silence.
Then, ‘You know where to find me, child.’
I hang up and let my hand drop to my side.
When I look up, my gaze snags on the black glass tower cutting into the skyline, dark and unapologetic, watching the city like it owns it.
A cold certainty settles in my chest.
Running has bought me time, nothing more. Whatever’s coming was always going to find me.
I square my shoulders, already choosing my next move.
If I have to face it, I’ll do it on my feet.